


Penance

by quicksparrows



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 23:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21328189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quicksparrows/pseuds/quicksparrows
Summary: Forgive me, Sothis, for I have posted hot takes on the wretched bird site and now choose to write drabbles as reparation for my evil works.(Just miscellaneous drabbles based on friends and strangers' prompts. Horny chapters marked with an R.)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	1. Bernadetta's Good Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Christine.

For one day, and one day only, she was alone in the world.

Nobody had died, of course. The world had not been swept clean by a plague or the wrath of the Goddess. Its people were safe somewhere, unharmed and oblivious to their gone-ness. And it wouldn’t just be the people that were gone: bugs and bees and things with mean teeth or claws or stingers would be gone too. 

For a day, the world was just for Bernadetta, and the kinder, sweeter creatures.

On that day, she left her room with confidence. She wore a sundress. She rolled in the grass and did unladylike things like cartwheels, and she thought little of grass stains. She went to the dining hall and she skipped along the way. When she got there, she sat at the table closest to the serving counters, and she did not have to dodge elbows when getting seconds, or thirds, and she did not at all think about her table manners.

After lunch, she went down to the docks and kicked her bare feet in the water. She went to the gardens and she tried singing, because she’d heard that plants liked the sound of voices, and she had never gotten to raise hers much. She found a small rock and threw it at Felix’s window, and though it took some effort to let it fly from her hand, she did it, and it clattered against the shutters loudly. Served him right for startling her last week!

As it turned to evening, she explored the marketplace, where it was finally quiet enough for her to get a good look at everything. She went to the stables and climbed into the rafters and threw herself in a pile of clean hay. She poked her head into the knights’ headquarters, and ran all the way up to the Archbishop’s receiving hall, where she dared to sit on her throne to see if she could feel Important that way. (She did not, but the thrill of it tickled her anyway.)

By bedtime, she was sorely tired from all her adventuring, and she wished she had the energy to sew a little, but tomorrow was another day.

Tomorrow, everyone would return.

But Bernadetta would always have her good day.


	2. Hubert's Morning Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Tori

Hubert started his day one way: with two kisses.

He was scarcely the first to rise, but he was never the last. Upon waking he would put his feet on the floor, round the bed and bend over Byleth, who was always the first to bed and the last to wake. He bent over her and nosed aside her bangs to kiss her forehead, and she sleepily hummed at him. Some mornings, she would reach for his hand and he would give it to her and let her squeeze it, but she would not stir. Sometimes he would trail a finger around her jaw, or along her exposed sternum, but this morning he just tucked her in, as the seasons were turning and it was cold out.

Next he went to the dressing lounge, where Edelgard sat, brushing her hair. She did not like to be disturbed, but she tolerated one indiscretion from him: when he came up behind her she hesitated in her next stroke, and she turned her lavender eyes to him. He leant in and tucked a knuckle under her chin to tilt her face to his, and he captured her in a kiss. When they parted, her hand had come to his cheek.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” he replied, and he let her go just to run a hand over the back of her hair. She gently waved him off.

Only then could his day begin in earnest.


	3. Seteth and Manuela's Night Out Drinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Erin

The goddess was testing him.

Manuela had promised she would drink in moderation if he went with her, but a couple drinks had turned into a dozen, and Seteth was quite sure he had never seen so much wine drunk in one sitting. He had been powerless to stop her, as stern words seldom deterred her. In fact, she seemed to take such a thing as a challenge: the more he tried to control her, the more she resisted control. The more she drank!

That was how he found himself carrying her up the stairs back to her room.

The stairs were the trickiest part, as with his arms laden with a woman wearing voluminous white furs, he could not see his feet. When he instinctively glanced down to check his footing, he found himself gazing into her generous cleavage. Her breasts were heaving right out of the confines of her dress, and with her legs bent over his arm, her high-slit skirt was perilously close to falling aside.

Seteth swallowed his breath.

She stirred suddenly, and he nearly dropped her, but with a quick heft he bumped her up against his chest and higher in his arms. She giggled, her head lolling against his chest.

“You’re suuuuuuch a man,” she slurred, “taking care of me...”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, curtly, trying not to look at her breasts, and subsequently failing.

The things he did for her...!


	4. Petra's Field of Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Emmy, some time ago, but I'm publishing it here.

Petra has a task.

She was chosen, she’s told, because she is nimble and quick. The battlefield is still dangerous, even with the enemy having formally retreated — many linger to collect their dead and wounded, to spare them the indignity of a godless burial, and without a commander, they may seek vengeance on their own terms. And so Petra must be quick.

Hubert had handed her a piece of cloth. It was warm and dirtied, but it shone golden in the last dying light of sunset. Petra gave him a curious look, and Hubert just said: “Fly it on the ramparts. Kill anyone who would stop you.”

With the cloth looped around her shoulders, she climbs the face of a building that had been partially knocked down by the ballista. From there she passes to an adjoining rooftop, and crosses to the highest point, a spire. Up she goes still, muscles straining worse than they had in battle, and with one arm wrapped around the black iron spire for balance, she takes the cloth from her neck.

It unfurls on the wind, revealing its full glory: glistening gold threads, ivory embroidery, rich and lush. A cape of the Church of Seiros, no doubt belonging to a man with high ordinance.

Blood and dirt mars it in patches.

Having belonged, perhaps.

Petra spears it through the iron spire with a great tug, and the fabric catches strong. The wind takes it open like the banner it is.

“If she’s out there in the woods, she’ll see it,” Hubert had said, not to her, not to anyone in particular. “Would she take the bait, I wonder?”

Petra doesn’t know, but up there on the spire, she can see the tree line, where the enemy camps are packing up and fleeing, a thousand leaden-footed soldiers nursing wounds and bruised egos alike. Why run at this point? No one is chasing them.

She’s done her duty.


	5. Seteth and Byleth's Ecclesiastical Fabrics (R)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Emmy, and this one is horny.

The Church of Seiros has spared no expense in their fineries.

The brightly embroidered flags that fly above the monastery walls, the fine lace on the edges of the linen table runners, the gaily coloured banners that hang above the house classrooms –– all of them woven by expert weavers, all of them marks of not only reverence for the Goddess, but also for the dedication of its clergy. Day in, day out, people have toiled and sacrificed in the hopes that the Goddess may look down and see what beauty has been made in her name.

And though the lower ranking members may wear simple wool shifts and tunics, woven in sensible colours and unadorned with impractical accessories, the upper echelons positively drown in their own fineries. Embroidered gold roping, tiny jewels and pearls, fine metals in the shapes of stars, glass beads and silken tassels –– they are beautiful, living monuments. The people wearing them are beautiful too, with bright eyes and shining hair.

Byleth's fingers coast over the surface of an ecclesiastical fabric, the delicate shimmering yarns woven into it slightly rough to the touch, like tiny metal rasps. It feels the same on her bare thighs as she presses back against them, and under that crisp, luxurious jacquard, she feels the outline of Seteth's hard cock. He shudders. She stops grinding against him.

"We shouldn't," he whispers. "Not here."

Byleth turns and looks at him, serene, even blank. The torchlight of the Saint's hall flickers, and in the great drafty cathedral, her nipples stand stiff, her remaining pieces of armor cool from the night air. She is naked, otherwise. He keeps looking at her nakedness and sighing, groaning, but his cock still protrudes from his trousers.

"When you touch me..." he says, finally.

His face is sharp, deeply shadowed by torchlight, his handsome features contorted in the worst kind of pain –– piousness being overcome by lust.

"Should I go on?" Byleth asks, simply.

"Yes," he confesses.

She spares nothing, either.


End file.
